Acceptance
by Sandfire Kat
Summary: Six months after Sherlock's death, John still isn't able to reach the last stage of loss: Acceptance. He can't believe that Sherlock isn't somewhere out there still. But is he right to wonder? Secrets lie in the shadows, and friends are revealed to know more than they're letting on. John KNOWS that Sherlock is still out there, and he's willing to prove it. But how far will he go?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story takes place almost six months after The Fall. This chapter is mainly exposition, and some things may seem a little off while you're first reading. But it'll get explained really soon, so don't worry. : ) It's supposed to be a little weird at times.

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Six months. One hundred and eighty three days. 15,811,200 seconds. No matter which way you looked at it, the time span was much too long to go without a friend. To go without someone to confide in, or rely on for help. Some might think it to be unbearable…but that's just because it is. And nobody would know that fact better than Doctor John Watson.

It was six months after…_it_. Six months since Sherlock had thrown himself off the roof of hospital to crash down onto the pavement like a dead weight. One hundred and eighty three days since Sherlock had told him that everything John knew was actually a lie. And above all…it was 15,811,200 seconds since his entire world had caved in around him. Or, it would be, that is. In exactly three days, it would be December 16th, the date marking just how long Watson had been like this. How long he had been…someone entirely different.

He became distant…a little bit harder to hold a conversation with to others around him. The man who would have ignited the conversation whole-heartedly a few months ago was now replaced with one who would wait, only speaking when he was spoken to. And while he tried to make a special effort to keep up his attitude while he was around acquaintances, he knew it was more than useless. Everywhere he went, he heard the whispers, the mummers on the streets. "Do you see that man over there?" "Sherlock's old live-in blogger, isn't that right?" "His best friend." "Look at how strange he looks." "Do you think he knew more than he let on to the papers?" "Such a sad-looking man." "Maybe he was an accomplice."

Accomplice. The word was like salt on a gaping wound. Ever since Sherlock had performed his suicide, the media was like wild fire; it still was, too. Whole news reports came out about the suspicious detective. The man who had once been praised and idolized for his miraculous stunts was now degraded and shunned. The title Sherlock Holmes was being smeared and disfigured. Everyone who spoke of him now spoke of the way he had turned, and what theories they had concerning the man's actions. "Kidnapping innocent children!" "Creating drugs!" "Killing off millions of innocent lives!" "And all for the glory of having an impressive reputation!"

Those were the words that floated on the wind now. And they were the words that caused men and women to eye Watson curiously when he walked through the streets, or shoulders to tense whenever a person passed by Baker Street. Rumors and schemes had turned into something of truth, things to take to heart as fixedly as if Sherlock himself had confessed them. And while the police never even brought up the man openly, the media always had some kind of story to post about him. Whether they managed to find something valuable, or just write what the public thought, it was never clear. But the headlines and the articles came and went, each more frustrating than the other.

For the first month, Watson refused to do much of anything. He'd get up, eat, sit around the flat, or just think. The only real thing he did was visit Sherlock's grave, which he did as frequently as he could. But other than taking the walk down to the cemetery, and speaking to those who worried over him, he never really did much of anything else. After all, with the weight that undeniably was seen hanging over his shoulders back then, it was amazing he even managed anything. He put on a smile, he dished out a few jokes, he visited those who worried over him, and he tried to make it seem like nothing changed.

Of course, that was when he was with others. When he was alone, back then and still now, it was always a different story. He never wanted to admit to himself that his best friend was gone, that he wasn't still alive somewhere. The first few months, he was unable to do anything more than politely deal with others; when Mrs. Hudson wanted inside to chat, he would make up an excuse. When he left the house, he went to the grocery story and back, no detours or conversation. He did the point minimum, and that suited him just fine.

But when the bills started piling high around him like castle walls, and the realization came that he was making no money, he was forced into action. He would have to go back to work, which was something that came to mind like a disease. For work was never again going to be considered a run through an alley, or witty conversations with your friend who always ended up saving the day. It meant going out to the world, into the fray of prying eyes, doing what you did just to get by. Not to get a thrill or a good story.

But he had managed to solve everything with a basic fix. He simply poured every ounce of himself into work, finding hours that started long before the sun did, and running strong even when the moon was in the night sky. The work was hard, it was long, and it was exhausting. And it was just the kind of thing that Watson had needed. Such a job proved nearly impossible to stop and chat with, and it left little to no time for visitors afterwards.

It also left only a small fraction for thought. He would get swept up in his assignments, mind slipping away into a fog as he mindlessly went through his labor. This way, the questions would stop. The wondering would taper off into a small niggling sensation as he scanned reports or performed surgeries. _Why did he stop me? Why did he tell me to watch him? Why didn't he bring up his 'solution' to me before? Did he not trust me? Did he think I couldn't have helped him? _All the buzzing pressings would fade into the background. While he was working, he could find peace for once.

So that was how he lived. Day in and day out, he was out before sun-up, and in just before midnight. He was worn thin, and yet he was more than happy.

It's funny, he always thought to himself. People always speak of the five stages of loss and grief. Supposedly, it goes: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and finally: Acceptance. He went through each stage every single day, and yet it seemed he always managed to skip the last one. Acceptance was the most important part of death, but it always went right over the doctor's head. He went to Sherlock's grave, he milled about daily life without the man, but he never could accept his death. Never. He owed too much for that.

Outside, it was dreary and rainy. The moon was at its highest point in the sky, its pale light spilling down on Baker Street in watery shafts. The streets were empty like they always were at this time, and Watson relished in the quiet. It had been another refreshingly-long day at the Hospital, and as Watson neared his flat, he tried to focus on the cases he had been given that day. But it wasn't easy; today had been one of the less-eventful days. A child with a broken arm (easily fixable), a woman looking for her medicine (an easy fix as well), and other simple tasks. It left hardly enough information to mull over or worry with. So that left his mind undeniably drifting away.

His footsteps were uneven, like a music without a fixed tempo. His hand hurt as he clutched his cane, and he winced a little as he proceeded down the sidewalk. His right appendage slowed him down again, dragging lamely against the ground. He tried to shake it off, attempting to force weight onto it like he always did. But just like every other time, it refused to hold up. He growled under his breath, rolling his eyes angrily as he cursed himself mentally. But the brief frustration came to a halt as he did, the man stopping silently in front of his home.

He twisted, turning around and looking up towards his window. It looked over the street with perfect view, he usually liked to stare out during the weekends when he had the days off from work. The spot was quiet, and the view was actually kind of impressive. But the sight of it now jarred him, Watson's eyes rounding out with confusion as he looked up with a puzzled expression.

The light was on.

He had turned the light off, he was certain of it. He always switched them off in the morning; without the light it would be pitch black and much too dark to walk around the flat. But he always made a point to flick them out as he went out the door. Mrs. Hudson always complained over the way that Sherlock had done tedious things such as leave things on. Such as the telly or the stove. So why was the light on now? Did Mrs. Hudson go in and leave it on for him when for when he got home? It would be just like her to try and leave a comforting gesture waiting, but he wasn't so sure that was the case here.

Feeling a small prickle of unease, Watson leaned forward, opening the door and closing it behind him once he crossed over the threshold. He made sure to close it as silently as possible, painfully aware of the time of night. The clock mounted over on the wall showed that it was nearly midnight. It was too dark to see, but it was probably an hour or thirty minutes away from the time. It would be Friday instead of Thursday soon.

So why was his light on?

Giving a small sigh, Watson reached up, putting his cane in his other hand as he switched to hold the stair rail tightly. His knuckles bleached white with the force, and he gave a small wince as he started up the stairs. He didn't know why he kept to _this _flat. After all, there was the other vacant one on the first floor, he wouldn't _need _to drag himself up the stairs with his once-again-lame-leg if he rented out that one. But he was stubborn; he wouldn't let someone else rent out this flat. _Sherlock's _flat.

So he struggled up with a determined scowl, dragging himself up the steep slope until he finally reached the top. He panted wearily, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead with a look that suddenly showed how tired he was. If the work hours didn't help him mentally so much, he would have asked for a shorter amount of time. But nonetheless, he could see that there was a light on from the crack under his door, it hadn't been some trick of the moonlight. Shifting his cane so that he could properly help himself to walk, Watson limped towards the door, only pausing a moment so that he could get inside.

Pushing the door open with a small creak, Watson peered inside cautiously, narrowing his eyes against the sudden glare that met him. Walking in the dark had made him grow accustomed to the dim light, and it was a shock to be met with something like this. But gradually he got his eyesight to clear, blinking away the spots in his vision as he entered the room. He shut the door behind him, fixing his cane and looking around briefly.

Papers had been rustled, having been shuffled from a neat stack on the table to slightly lopsided. But the minor detail was nothing compared to what was around him. The whole place had been cleaned; shelves were organized, photos were dusted, and the windows seemed to let in a little more stars than normal, as if it had been scrubbed. The place was nothing like he'd left it. It hadn't been really messy he would say, he didn't ever like to reorganize things. But it was nowhere near this spotless this morning.

"…Hello?" He called out, looking around with a rather stunned expression. Nobody replied to his shout, and he fidgeted a little nervously. "Mrs. Hudson?" He asked. But the older woman would have certainly made her presence known by now, she was always bubbling and fussing over him when she ever caught sight of the doctor. So it couldn't have been her. "…Mycroft?" He pressed, plucking the name out of the air rapidly. Sherlock's brother would most likely be the person in question now that he pondered over it. Sherlock's brother had never made a proper claim for his dead family member's belongings. He had let Watson keep them considering the doctor had been obviously closer to the detective than even he had. Maybe he came back to ask for a few things?

He called out again, but this time his shout was cut off by another. "John!?" The sharp yelp came with a small hint of surprise, and a head suddenly poked out, wide eyes peering into the room. Watson jumped out of skin at the arrival, eyes widening as he staggered to the side. The figure in question stiffened, fully entering the room. They fixed him with a shocked look, as if they too were getting over their bout of surprise. "I didn't think you would be back for a while."

John rose a hand to his chest, feeling the allegro tempo of his heartbeat underneath his jacket. He cursed underneath his breath, feeling a small hint of relief crawl into him. It was ridiculous that he had been so frightened; he hadn't even realized how tense he had become until now. Nevertheless, he gave a small smile at the lithe figure, the grin a bit more genuine than he usually had around his old friends. "Oh." He breathed. "It's just you, Molly."

He should have known. Molly always let herself in. Once or twice a month, John always came back from work to find the doctor in his flat. It had been surprising at first: when did Molly ever visit this place? Even _when _Sherlock was living here? And for a while, he had tried to drop hints about not wanting her there. After all, her visits never really had a pattern, and Watson wasn't ever the person to leap into conversations anymore, especially surprise ones. But after a while he had figured that it would be alright. It didn't seem like he was able to get rid of her, anyway.

He was surprised Molly didn't cross his mind when he saw the light on.

The girl smiled at the words, wringing her hands together tightly in front of her. John cleared his throat, shifting on his cane as he watched her expectantly, wondering what brought her by this time. For a heartbeat, silence stretched like a bridge between them, and John was reminded why he and Sherlock never invited the female over here on any other day except for Christmas. After a beat of tense waiting, she shifted uneasily, eyes flickering down quickly to the metal pole he was leaning on. "…Your leg?" She asked softly, brow furrowing.

John blinked, straightening as he looked down. "Oh." He said, voice sharp, as if just catching sight of the useless thing. Molly looked pained as she stared down at the appendage, mouth halfway open, as if she were going to say something. But he spoke up before she could, doing his best to give a monotone shrug. "It must be acting up again, that's all." He said easily, looking up and giving her a swift smile. But the expression didn't reach his eyes, and by Molly's crestfallen expression, she registered the sad sort of aura around him.

But she moved on quickly, proceeding forward to John's relief. "Right then." She mumbled, turning to the side and jabbing a finger over to the kitchen. "I- uh, I hope you don't mind." She stumbled, smiling at the ex-detective. "I brought you some dinner. Still warm." John's eyes rounded out with pleasant surprise. "It's just…last time I was over…you hadn't eaten yet." She explained softly. "I figured…you know…I'd make sure you had something this time. Just in case."

"Oh." He said, feeling like a broken record. "Well, that's very kind of you." He said pleasantly.

Molly grinned, standing still for a heartbeat as she stared at him. But then she turned, going into the kitchen, not looking back for John to follow her. He sighed wearily, figuring that there was no point in trying to get Molly to leave. And besides, she had a good heart on her. Might as well try not to be too mean. He limped after the woman, going into the kitchen and taking in another deep breath to steady himself.

She was standing neatly beside the counter, leaning over a plate of food that had been sealed with cling film. It looked rather good, and it smelled the same. Watson's stomach growled, and he was reminded that he hadn't eaten since lunch, which had been brief. Molly stepped back with another one of her little smiles, shifting from foot to foot as she waited for John to comment. When he didn't at first, she gave a tense laugh. "Sorry if it isn't good." She apologized. "But I think I've been getting better."

He paced forward, leaning on the counter and letting his cane prop itself up against the structure. "No, no." He assured her, picking up the fork that was resting beside the plate already. "It looks good. Thank you, by the way." He said, stabbing his silverware into the hunk of meat. It looked a little burned on the edges, but other than that it seemed edible. Which was always a plus side for food. Starting to eat, he glanced over at her, clearing his throat in hopes of sounding much more interested than he probably was. "Are you studying recipes?" He asked, Molly perking at the question. When she didn't reply, he pressed: "You said you're getting better. Did you find some recipes?"

The doctor smiled. "Oh, no." She said smoothly. "I have company over. They've been helping me cook every one and a while." At Watson's blank look, she jumped, adding: "My mother. Erm, she and my father have been in quite a row. She's staying with me until things calm down a little."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." Watson offered out. When Molly didn't make another chance for conversation, he hesitated before: "Is she staying long?" Immediately, he wished he could take the words back, though. She might not want to talk about anything like this; her parents were in a troubling situation, and here he was rubbing it back in her face. It was just like he felt when people asked him if he was alright after Sherlock had died. "I'm sorry-"

"No, that's alright." Molly murmured, cutting him off before he could try and apologize. "They're fine, actually. Or, at least…I think they are. She'll go back soon. Father has already been calling for her, so…" She trailed off invitingly, letting Watson finish the sentence mentally.

He gave a mumble of agreement. "Well, your mother is a good teacher." He said, almost done with the food.

"Yup." She sighed softly. "She's…she's pretty good."

Silence fell between them once more, sending the air crackling with tension as Watson finished the meal. He tried not to look up at her, for fear of making the scene even worse. He had been wishing for another quiet night; he had planned to go inside and right to bed. He hadn't planned on Molly's visit, not that he ever did. And inevitably, he wondered what Sherlock would have done in such an odd situation. No doubt he would stride into the room, not even pausing to look over his shoulder as he strode past with a short: 'Get out. I have to think.'

The thought of the detective immediately caused Watson to wince away, and he hoped that Molly hadn't noticed the movement. It was things like this that he tried to avoid, things that would cause him to think about Sherlock. It wasn't something he needed, and it certainly wouldn't help him to ever reach that last fifth stage of grief. In fact, these positions were probably what fueled his inability to forget his friend. The thought came as a firm one, but he figured that he wouldn't be able to not think about him either way.

"So…how are you?" Molly asked, bringing up the question she always had when she was here.

Fighting off the sigh that was rising in his throat, Watson nodded, letting the fork fall to the plate with a clatter. "Fine. Peachy." He said, pushing himself up and reaching for his cane again. Molly's eyes followed his hand, but she didn't say anything as he leaned onto it for support. Watson's eyes flickered over once more to the clock, and he saw that now it really was getting close to Friday. "Hey, Molly?" He asked, catching the girl's attention at once as she turned. "Not to be rude or anything…but…why are you here?"

"…What do you mean?" She asked in a nervous chuckle.

Watson shrugged. "It's just…you've never showed interest in coming here before." He pointed out, the girl's mouth setting itself into a firm line as she clammed up. "It's fine, but…why do you always come here? You _wait _for me. You make _dinner _for me. I mean- I'm not trying to tell you to stop. I just…wish I knew _why _you do…what you do."

She looked down, biting her lower lip as she scuffed the ground with the toe of her shoe. "I just…thought you might need a friend." She murmured under her breath, giving out a small shrug along with the words. Her voice was small and light, a tiny whisper. She studied the floor of the flat like it was some kind of puzzle that she was trying to put together, as if anything was better than looking up at Watson. "I wanted to see how you were doing. It can't be easy, I know it isn't. People in my family have died that I was close to. And…I know how you might feel. Or what you're going through."

Watson shook his head listlessly, looking away.

"I'm sorry if my coming here makes it worse." She said, entwining her fingers together as she clasped her hands together tightly. "I can leave, if you want. I was just going to ask if you…" She blinked rapidly, suddenly looking very caught off-guard, like she hadn't expected it would come to this. "December 16th." She said bluntly, voice having a small squeak to it.

Watson's eyes narrowed with confusion. "…What about it?" He asked.

"Well." She said slowly. "It'll make six months." Watson didn't move an inch at the reminder, staring at her blankly as he went somewhat rigid. She eyed the discomfort sadly, but forced herself to go on. "I was just going to offer myself. If you're going to take the day off from your job, I was thinking we could maybe do something together." She took this moment to draw herself up, looking into Watson's eyes steadily. "So that neither of us have to be alone."

So she knew as well as anybody else why he has the job he has. Of course she would, every one of his old friends knew that it would nearly be impossible to reach Doctor Watson when the sun was up. But how on earth could she even guess that he was planning on taking the day off? After all, he had the job for a reason. You would think he would make a point to stay in his office on that specific date. But Molly seemed almost certain that that was what he had in mind.

"Oh." He said, using the word for probably the third time. "That's a kind offer."

Molly didn't say anything.

He didn't want to. He wanted to be alone that day. He wanted to be alone every day. The universe was against him, it seemed, otherwise it wouldn't always give him these people that wanted to talk to him. Especially on the 16th. He wanted to be alone in the flat, where he could walk around without having eyes on him, or do things without hearing whispers in the air. But then again, there was the small part of his mind. The one that shouted at him: _Don't be so stupid! She's trying to be nice to you! Don't throw it back at her! How many friends do you think she has? Maybe she just wants somebody to be with._

"Uh…what did you have in mind?" He asked slowly, taking the offer with an internal grimace.

Molly brightened at once at this. "Well, we could go somewhere quiet." She offered, obviously having heard the rumors on the streets just as clearly as Watson had. "We could maybe go library. …Do you like to read?"

"Sure." Watson said, actually taking a liking to the idea. The library was quiet; the only people that ever really went in there were always nose-up in a book. They wouldn't look up long enough to recognize him, and they certainly wouldn't try to talk to him if he had a book himself. And then he and Molly wouldn't be forced to have a conversation. They'd both have their own tale, hopefully they'd be too busy to share words. Now only if there weren't any newspapers there… "We could do that."

Molly nodded once. "So…in two days?" She asked.

Watson turned, realizing with a start that it was already past midnight. It was December 14th now, instead of 13th. Now it was just two more days. His throat swelled, closing in on itself in an embarrassing form of sentiment. Had it really only been six months? It was more like six years, it felt much too long to be real. It went by in blurs of work and Molly, who reoccurred in his life like a tic that wouldn't go away. And now she was asking for his time on this day, this important day. She was taking his grieving time, and whether or not it was a conscious decision, she was holding him back from wallowing in his depression like he wanted.

Did she know that? Was that why she was asking for him to be with her?

"…Two days…" He agreed breezily, eyes clouding over at the words.

Silence again. And this time it was washed in Watson's sorrow. Memories of Sherlock and every single time that the man had saved him. The time with the bombs and Moriarty. The time with the Black Lotuses and Sarah. What had he last said to Sherlock? Did the man truly know how much he appreciated him? Was his last impression on the detective one of support? Or was it his frustration, his bitterness at the moment? Sherlock had saved him so many times…why couldn't he had saved him when _he _was the one that needed help?

"I'll be waiting here." Molly offered, jarring him out of his thoughts. "Let's say…around lunch?"

Watson nodded, knowing he wouldn't be able to reply.

She gave him a weak smile, as if she knew that she wouldn't help any more by being here. "I'll be here, then." She repeated, going over and reluctantly putting a hand on his shoulder. "Uh, you…you take care, okay? Good luck with your job." Watson turned to look at her, eyes shadowed as he just stared. There wasn't anything he could say, really. Molly cleared her throat, snatching her hand away like she had burned it. Instead, she turned on her heel, gathering up the plate and the silverware that she had brought along. Tidying up in less than a moment, the woman turned, giving him a small nod.

She looked as if she were about to leave. But Watson stepped forward, clearing away the lump in his throat as best he could before speaking. "D-Did you clean up around here?" He asked, voice sounding as if someone had a chokehold around his neck.

Molly surveyed the area, "Yes. I did."

"…Thank you." Watson said fervently, drawing back. "I would do it myself, but I don't want to…" He trailed off, looking around with a look so full of misery and neglect that Molly had to turn away. "I don't want to mess anything up." Watson murmured. "I don't know exactly how he liked it. I don't want to mess up his flat."

"It's your's now." She urged, voice bright.

Watson only stared at her, not replying. "…Goodnight, Molly." He said, turning around and already walking down the hall. He put his back to her, unable to keep up the conversation by now. He was done. "Thank you for dinner. You can let yourself out."

"Oh…okay." Molly said, concern overcastting her face. "I'll see you in a few days, then." She called after him. "We don't have to just go to the library, either. We can go to the cemetery if you want. We can go to-" But the door slammed sharply through her words, Watson disappearing into the bedroom without stopping to listen to her. The girl broke off, looking hurt as her shoulders slumped in disappointment.

She'd only been here for about thirty minutes before she was shut out.

It was a new record.

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She knocked on the wood of the door exactly eight times, taking care in spacing out the knocks. It created almost a musical pattern, but the fact went right over her head. She just concentrated on the number, face creased over with severe worry as she drew back. She had put the leftover dishes in the sink upstairs, leaving a mental note to wash them up later. But for right now she had to talk to him. She just wished it didn't take so long.

Eventually, a small voice leaked through the wooden barrier that the door created. It called out a welcome, a simple: 'Come in.' It was filled with caution, though there was no doubt in her mind that he knew exactly who it was on the other side of the door. Nonetheless, Molly slipped her way inside, immediately shutting it silently behind her. Thank goodness it didn't creak, she thought inwardly. Otherwise it would be much more nerve-wracking getting inside than it was already. Even if it _was_ her house.

The room inside was dim, the only light coming in from a small window in the farthest corner of the storage closet. There were things cluttering the room that were being hoarded inside, things like furniture that went unused, or photo albums that were gathering dust. The only new-looking thing inside the place was the bed that was pushed off to the side, the covers perfectly arranged. Although there was clutter and mess like there always was, it was noticeably much more organized. It looked almost used. Molly sighed inwardly at the fact, wringing her hands together once more as she called out tentatively. "It's me."

"Of course it's you." The comment came almost at once. Molly straightened, somewhat relived at the voice as she went deeper into the space. It was rather large for a storage room, which was probably why it was such a good place to begin with for this. As she rounded the corner, she stopped short, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. A lithe figure stood in front of the only window, staring outside with a blank expression. His arms were resting lightly on his hips, blue eyes narrowed as he gazed out the small screen of glass.

"You shouldn't do that." Molly mumbled, looking over to the ground. "Someone could see you."

He hummed dismissively, waving her objection off like it was nonsense. "No they couldn't." He stated easily, as if the thought should have been more than common sense. But of course, he always seemed to talk about things that way. Molly had grown used to it by now. He leaned lazily against the wall, sharp eyes flicking back and forth across the lawn. Since they were downstairs, the window was eyelevel with the blades of grass, which were starting to get a little overgrown.

"It's their anniversary tonight; their tenth one, to be exact." He went on, not bothering to bring up the issue that lay between them like thorns. "The Mrs. wanted to go to a fancy restaurant, something that her husband could have obviously done without. But judging by his irritated look on the way out, she got what she wanted. Of course, by the man's expression, I'd guess that he isn't happy with the relationship, no doubt regretting whatever kind of decision he made to be with her. Such a tedious fight over where to eat, but it must have shone a little light on past arguments. They're the type to disagree, it seems. I hope she remembers this night, because I only give them a few more months. I've seen the way that he looks at that woman down the street."

Molly blinked rapidly, unsure what to say to him. But then again, that was the way she always was. "…I'm sorry…what?" She settled for, her confusion echoing in each syllable of her words. The man stared at her for a moment before shaking his head, turning back around to look out the window. Guessing that he wouldn't be the one to bring it up first, Molly went ahead with a shaky intake of air. "I went to Watson's tonight." She offered.

He tried not to look interested, she could tell. But as soon as the name passed her lips, she could see his plain reaction. The way he stiffened, going rigid like a board. He stood a little straighter, head cocking backwards as if to be able to hear her better. She cleared her throat nervously, swallowing with a thick sort of choke. "He wasn't…I mean- how can I-"

At this, he spun around, blue eyes burning as he looked at her intently. "What?" The words did nothing to help his façade of indifference, and Molly started at the sudden spike of worry. She had done this millions of times, once or twice a month ever since the incident. She had dropped by on Watson, spoke for a few minutes, tried to get everything she could, and then brought it back with her. It wasn't her going there, not really. She hadn't been lying when she said she had company at her home, but she had failed to tell the truth about her visitor. It wasn't her mother, because her mother would never show any interest at all in John Watson. Her mother wouldn't be the one asking her to go over to Baker Street and see how he's doing. Her mother wouldn't ask for updates on the man's condition: whether or not he had moved on with his life, or whether or not he was wallowing away.

"He's not any better, Sherlock." She finally managed.

Sherlock blinked, face falling ever so slightly at the notion.

"Maybe you should-"

The detective scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets as he turned swiftly. He tried to cover up his brief moment of emotion, and yet Molly couldn't believe that she had mistaken the feeling. "Typical." The man said lowly, a crease appearing in his forehead as if he were mulling things over in his hyperactive brain of his. "John never could let things go easily."

"Well…maybe you should try and…reach him?" She suggested, voice growing smaller.

Sherlock turned slightly, eyeing her as if she had just suggested morphing into fruit and rolling down the street. "'Reach him?'" Sherlock echoed, almost like the words were foreign to him. Molly hit her wrists against her sides, biting her lower lip as she winced inwardly. By now, the detective had turned once more, blue eyes in critical slits as he surveyed the woman fully. She braced herself, knowing that the subject was touchy, even for someone so apathetic as Sherlock. But when he spoke, he was surprisingly calm.

"You know I can't." He said, voice clipped short. "I can't do anything until I know that it's safe. Safe for Lestrade, John, _and _Mrs. Hudson." He shook his head back and forth, looking like a child that had come across a math problem that was stumping them. "Unless I know that the terrain I'm walking on is stable, I won't do anything." Molly opened her mouth to flash back a retort, but the man cut her off suddenly. "What happened?"

Molly shrugged. "Same as any other time." She sighed, realizing that there probably wasn't any other kind of way to try and get Sherlock to open up any more. He was like a treasure chest, and Molly just didn't have a key to loosen the lock. "His apartment was the same as when I left. Like he didn't touch anything."

She stumbled on her words, glancing over her shoulder out of habit towards the door, checking it unconsciously. But it was untouched; nobody would ever try to wander this far down the basement, even if they got in the house without her knowing. Plus, she had arranged the furniture in the basement so that the door that led into the storage room was more or less concealed. When Sherlock had first asked her for help, she hadn't considered the fact that he meant he needed a place to hide out. Nonetheless, with the short amount of preparation time she had, she was rather proud of utilizing this space. She never used it anyway, except for putting away unused things. Now, Sherlock used it as a place to hide away, only leaving the house once and a while when he thought appropriate.

She and the detective had had this conversation before. Sherlock had gone out and about every once and a while under her (quiet rare) urgings. After all, she knew the severity of their situation just as well as he did. But that was all she managed to do. Sherlock would go out and walk, hunched under his coat and making sure that no one would recognize him. He didn't complain, even Molly knew that being cooped up in here was probably driving him insane. But he never contacted anybody. He never talked to Watson, or Lestrade, never setting the record straight or leaving behind clues.

The only person who knew of him still being alive was Mycroft, and that was just because they both needed the man to scramble the computers in order for the detective's suicide to work. And even then, Sherlock was more than irritable about revealing their plan to anyone besides themselves. But besides his brother, who never let on he knew about this secret to anybody, Sherlock had kept to himself. He had Molly to check on Watson for him, and he seemed to think that was enough. But she knew better.

She shook herself mentally, forcing herself along. "I cleaned up a little bit. And I brought him dinner too. His leg is still hurting him-"

"It isn't _hurting _him." Sherlock growled instantly, breaking through her words for about the millionth time that night. "It's a _mental _injury, not a _real _one! I proved that back when he first moved into the flat." He man groaned under his breath, scowling as he drew a fast hand through his hair, mussing it up. "Why did he let something like that come back? You think he would know better! After all, I-"

"He's just sad." Molly whispered softly.

Sherlock perked, hand still halfway through his hair as he turned to look at her.

"…You are too." She added on. "You can't blame him."

Sherlock didn't say anything, letting his arm fall limply down to his side as he stared at her. Molly shifted from foot to foot, realizing that she was overstaying her welcome with this one. "Okay." She said with a single nod. "Well, I asked him what he was doing on the 16th." He looked interested at this. "He said nothing. I could tell that he didn't want to…but you told me I should…so…we're going to the library. You were right, by the way. He was taking off work that day." His blue eyes hardened with suspicion and thought, his hands coming together in a fold like they normally did when he was thinking.

Molly considered asking for an explanation, but figured that there wouldn't be a point. Instead, she turned slowly, going back around the corner towards the door that led into the main part of the basement. "Well, then, I'll be going." She said, grabbing the doorknob and twisting it to the side. But she hesitated a moment, twisting around to look back over her shoulder. "It's getting late. You should get to sleep soon." She knew that it shouldn't be any kind of worry for her whether or not he got rest. But she couldn't help adding it as a goodbye. To gloss over the accusations that had been traded. She didn't want to leave on too bad of a note.

Sherlock grumbled under his breath, a sarcastic remark probably hidden underneath. But Molly was much too tired to try and figure out what it was. It was nearly one or two in the morning, and she was too worn out to try any harder tonight. "Alright, then." Sherlock murmured softly, watching her go with a studious expression. Molly wondered inwardly whether or not he was observing what she had done or where she had gone today just by looking at her.

"Goodnight." She said swiftly, turning her back to him with a look of sorrow. Once again, she'd failed to get a good connection with the man. She'd come close a few times, and yet she always fell short. How had Watson managed to forge such a good bond with him? She felt like she was irritating him by just standing in the same room as he did.

"Molly."

Her name stopped her short, the woman turning around to look back at Sherlock. Too late, she realized that she had forgotten to perk herself up. She twisted around with her put-out expression, eyes like pools of misery as she let her hand rest loosely on the doorknob, still unable to actually pull open the thing and leave. Sherlock frowned softly at her, as if the thought dawned on him that Molly might have things to say on the matter. The woman didn't say anything, merely staring at him expectantly. "Did I…do something wrong?" He asked finally.

Molly shook her head at once. "No. No, of course not." She comforted. "No, it's just…no. Everything's fine, don't worry about it."

Sherlock hesitated, looking at her with rare confusion. "I-"

"Don't worry." She assured, more firmly this time. "I've got it, it's fine. I'll go to the library with Watson, I'll make sure nothing happens. I'll do whatever, it's fine. Don't worry about it." Without waiting for him to reply to her again, Molly ducked out quickly, itching to get out of the suddenly-small room. "Don't worry." She said one last time, a final goodnight as she shut the door behind her. Standing still for a moment, staring blankly at the rest of her basement, she heaved a large sigh. Turning around, she grabbed the display rug, tugging it over with a small wince and arranging it so that it was neatly over the door, shielding it from view.

She stepped back with a sigh, eyes shadowed somewhat as she observed her work. This way, if anyone were to get downstairs, they'd have to lift away the rug to actually see that there was another room hidden away behind it. And since the rug matched the rest of the room quite accordingly, Molly hoped there would never come a time when someone would try and pull away the decoration.

She didn't know how long Sherlock was planning to stay in her basement. She didn't really mind; after all, she wouldn't be the one to kick him out. He was a friend and she was merely helping him along with whatever plans he was trying to sort out. But she knew one way or another, a day would come where Sherlock would eventually decide what to do next. Was he planning on staying down here the rest of his life?

_No. _She thought, staring intently at the rug as she mulled over the events mentally. _He knows this can't be permanent. He has a back-up plan, surely? _She twisted around, looking up the steps and biting her lower lip out of a nervous habit. How easy would it be for someone to walk down here and accidentally knock over the rug? How easy would it be for the secret to slip out before anyone could fully realize the consequences it would have?

_He _needs _a back-up plan. _She thought. _Because I don't know how long we can keep this up._

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

A/N: Like I said, details will come farther along. Like how exactly Molly and Sherlock have been living, and how Sherlock survived. BUT PLEASE NOTE THIS IS BEFORE SEASON THREE. ANY COMING THEORIES I HAVE ((which I think are pretty good)) THEY MIGHT NOT BE TRUE. SO IF YOU'RE READING THIS AFTER SEASON THREE, JUST REMEMEBER THAT. Other things like Watson's life ((which I glossed over a little bit)), the police force, the aftermath. All of those will come later on. So don't worry. : )

Like I said before, this is more of an introduction than anything. Minor details put in to branch off of for later on. If I get a lot of reviews, I'll be sure to update as soon as I possibly can! I go off updates by reviews, so the timing is really in your hands ;)

I tried to do research. I'm American, so I had to search up British slang words and all that jazz. I watched episodes to get ppl's character, all that fun fun fun stuff. So hopefully it shows, and hopefully you all like it! And BTW: A display rug is just what it sounds like. A rug that's used like a kind of painting. It's on these metal beams that hold it up, and you can move it around or hang it on walls. This one is one beams, and its large enough to cover a door ((obviously)).

Please leave a review to tell me how I did! Thanks! :D


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So I didn't get as many reviews as I wanted to last chapter.

More reviews make faster updates, that's how I work around here XDD

By the way, this chapter brings up a pretty popular theory on how everything went down. Please note this is BEFORE season three. I have no idea if it's right, but I think that there are a lot of good points in it that could be possible.

_Italics signal inner monologues / the past _

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

_You're wrong you know; you do count. You've always counted, and I've always trusted you._

_But you were right…I'm not okay._

_I expected anything, such as I always do. Anything and everything crossed my mind in that blink of a second: a snap of retort telling me that I had my chance, a simple walk-out to show that she was in fact much too tired of me, as many people do find themselves feeling, or an awkward look thrown my way in reply. Molly had always been the one to stand off to the side, mouth a quiet line of silence as she watched everything go by around her without a word in edgewise. And whenever she was required to have social contact, her inability to communicate always seemed to get the best of her. _

_I thought of anything she might have done, and yet I was still caught off-guard by her reaction. It was immediate, the girl not wasting a moment. Her grip tightened considerably on the knob of the hospital door, the edges of her eyes tightening ever so slightly as she seemed to confirm a mental question in her mind. The reply that came my way was short; it almost appeared as a strong demand other than a cause of general concern. "Tell me what's wrong." She had said at once, voice unnaturally steady as she seemed to take me in a different light._

_Tell me what's wrong. _

_Where could I start?_

_Could I start with the fact that Jim Moritarty -the man I considered my new arch rival next to none other than my brother- had actually gotten the better of me for once? That I, the Great Sherlock Holmes, had been played like some sort of pawn in a game of chess? Because that is exactly what happened. Moriarty had planned everything from the very beginning; and like some kind of lacking student, I was just now starting to realize what was at stake now. What was at stake and what I would have to do to stop the oncoming danger. _

_And here I was now, finding myself unable to move forward without the help of someone else. The only other company I had was the plan that had formulated inside my mind like a castle. I always had plans; I always knew what to do and how to get myself out of a jam. I could find a way out of a pitch-black room that was two feet long, I could pick out a murderer in the thick of a crowd, and I could twist myself out of any knot if given five minutes to think. _

_But here…my plan was fragile. It was chipped and cracked in some places, like pieces of a puzzle that couldn't really match up with each other. All I knew for sure was that I had attracted Jim Moriarty in the first place. He was _my_ fan, _my_ 'admirer.' And I knew that in order to get rid of him, I would have to get rid of myself in the process. I would have to die. And there was only one way that I could do just that._

_And she was standing right in front of me._

"_Molly…I think I'm going to die." Those were the best words I could come up with. There was no other way to describe it, there were too many numbers, too many possible defectors. It would take ages to try and voice the thoughts that were blinking through my mind like lightening, and we simply didn't have that. We didn't have time to sit down and talk things over, Jim was far too impatient for anything like that. We were hanging on a thin string, and he was holding the other end of it. He had the upper hand, and this was my last chance to try and flip the tables. My last chance to try and right the wrongs that I had done._

"_What do you need?" The question came just as firm as the last, and just as fast._

_Jim's words flashed through my mind, cramming itself inside among the questions and worries. A storyteller. A tall-tale teller. A liar. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am…" I started, remembering the look of brief puzzlement that had flashed through Watson's features as he read over the papers Jim had handed him. "…everything that I think I am…would you still want to help me?" _

_The question was quiet, spoken in a hushed whisper, though I knew for a fact that there was nobody in the hospital within hearing distance of the conversation. It was quiet because of the intensity that came with it. If I were to trust her, if I were to place this large burden on her shoulders, I needed to know that she would stay true. No matter what happened, or what she heard about me, I needed to know that she would remain unchanged. After all, the entire police force was against me now, and all it had taken was a small drop of suspicion. Would Molly want to help Sherlock Holmes, the great and scientific hero? Of course. But if she heard Jim's lies? If she started to believe them too?_

_Molly's eyes had settled into a much more focused look by now, as if she had realized that this wasn't some sort of petty game. As if she realized how much this problem had taken a toll on me. This wasn't something I could fix in a lab, and this wasn't something that I could deduce apart like a math problem, she seemed to know this at once. Her eyes searched mine for a moment, the girl swallowing with a hint of nervousness. But when she spoke, it was with the same leveled voice. "What do you need?" She repeated slowly._

_I took a step closer, eyes narrowing somewhat as I did so. But if Molly noticed the shuffle forward, she gave no heed . Her eyes were now locked firmly on my own, the girl waiting with bated breath for my response. She had let go of the doorknob by now, having taken her own step forward as she used her free hands to clutch at her bag now. Her knuckles were bleached white with tension, a sign of stress and nerves. But her fingers were curled inwards as she made a fist, her hand not shaking at all. This wasn't a show of anxiousness, it was one of determination. She had no idea what I needed, and yet she was already willing to give me it._

"_You." I stated plainly. _

_Molly stiffened, caught off-guard by the blunt explanation. Her grip on her bag slackened noticeably, the slight movement catching my eye as clearly as if she herself had brought my attention to it. Stumbling a little to try and regain some footing, the doctor opened her mouth, as if readying herself to ask a question. But then she snapped it closed at once, biting back the words she was about to voice and choosing not to. Instead, she just stared back at me, eyes narrowed a little in confusion as she tried to piece together the puzzle that I was shoving into her hands. _

_I took another breath, my eyes inevitably slipping over towards the clock on the wall as I checked the time once more. Time wasn't anything that we had a surplus of now; if we wasted any more minutes, who knows what could happen, or what Jim could do. After all, he had the world playing in the palm of his hand right now. "I need a doctor's help." I annunciated, tearing my gaze away from the clock and forcing my attention back on to Molly. The girl had straightened at this, her puzzled look turning into a much more wilted one. But I swept by the expression, unable to draw out enough patience to linger on the deflation. "But more importantly, I need _your _help." I repeated. "You're the only resource at the moment that would be able to assist what I'm about to do."_

"…_What _are _you going to do?" She asked, words coming much more slowly now._

_This was it: the point of no return. Once I stepped over this threshold, there was no going back. No amount of emotion, no amount of threats, and no amount of danger would be able to turn me from the path I was about to go down. If Molly decided that she would help me that is, that was the deciding factor. "I need to fake my own death." I said steadily. "And to do that, I would need the help of someone as important as you."_

_Molly went rigid, like a board. Her eyes rounded out with shock at my words, and her mouth formed into a small little O. For a moment, it was silent. But then she finally managed to draw herself out of her stupor, shaking her head back and forth rapidly as if she were trying to clear it. "I-I don't understand." She said, looking back up with a baffled look on her face. But behind the confusion, there was concern. Like a large storm cloud, I could feel it hanging around her like a fog, sparking the air between us like lightening. "Are you okay? What's going on?" She had stepped fully away from the door now, all eyes and ears on me now after my blunt request._

_But I shook my head. "No." I said firmly._

"…_No?"_

"_We don't have time." I said swiftly. I had no idea where Watson was, but he could walk in at any moment. And with something like this, I needed time in order to convey my plan properly. Especially to someone as clumsy as Molly could be at times. "I can't tell you the whole story right now, you just have to trust my judgment." The girl quieted at this, mouth setting itself into the familiar line that it normally was in. The words seemed to comfort her some, and there was nothing confusing about that. After all, I was Sherlock Holmes. My judgment was never wrong. But still, I needed closure. "…Can you do that?" I asked. _

_She blinked, opening her mouth slowly as she weighed her options. I could almost see her head reeling from the suddenness of the situation. Another glance at the clock. Tick Tock. "_Can you do that?_" I repeated, voice hardening at once as nerves started to get the better of me. Which of course only made things worse. Usually I was so calm and collected; emotions were always shoved in the back of my mind in order to focus more clearly on the subjects that were at hand. But now it was almost as bad as the time that Watson and I had traveled to Baskerville. Back then I had been confused, muddled, and at a loss. I was nearly the same now._

_She was much quicker with this reply. "Of course." She said at once, eyes widening ever so slightly._

_I paused a moment, realizing that I was starting to border the line that separated us. Calming myself before going on, I nodded stiffly, retreating once more back into my apathetic stature. "Good." I said, eyes narrowing with concentration and thought as my mind started to kick in once more. "Now we'll need a body; one that looks like me, and would have the proper wounds." Molly was blinking rapidly by now, and I could tell by her twitching hand that she was wishing for a notebook or a pencil. "You work in the morgue, so a body that looks like me wouldn't be too hard to find for you." I looked down, slipping my phone out of my pocket and busily starting to type in letters. "And then I need the rhododendron mixture, that might be a little bit harder to get a hold of."_

"…_Excuse me…" Molly murmured, eyes round like the moon. "…the what mixture?"_

_I sighed, already knowing the question would make itself known. Extending out my arm, I displayed to her the screen, which showed a brightly-colored plant. "They were by the warehouse where we found the two children earlier." I explained roughly, eyes once again flickering over to the time. "Do you remember where that was?" Molly opened her mouth to answer, but I brushed on before she could. "Rhododendron is an evergreen tree, and from it grow flowers. If the flowers are ingested, they cause many symptoms of illness. And one of those symptoms is low blood pressure. That, accompanied with the way that the drug causes the heart to slow down makes it a perfect solution for this exact problem."_

'_I don't even know what the problem is.' Molly's unspoken words had sparked the air, but she did not voice them. Instead, she shifted, as if mapping out the path to the warehouse mentally. She knew where it was, of course. The children that had been saved from it had been admitted into this hospital, no doubt the address had been roving through the air like wildfire. "So you want me to go get them?" She asked slowly, eyes rising up ever so slightly to meet my own. But as soon as they did, they darted away, quick as a flash. _

_I didn't answer, she didn't need me to. "I have to disappear completely, and this is the only way to do it." I took a deep breath, pocketing the device without a second glance. I closed my eyes tightly, going over the plan once more in my head, making sure that it was the best it could be. Folding my hands once more, I rested them on the tip of my nose in deep concentration. _

"_I'm going to go up to the top of the Hospital." I started, Molly stilling as I began to relay my blueprints. "I'll text you before I do, but just make sure that you're aware. Then-"_

"_Do you need my number before-"_

_I threw her a look. _

_She got quiet again._

"_I'll have taken the mixture before then, that way my body will already be starting to revert into the drugged state that the chemicals of the flower induce. If everything goes according to plan, then my Homeless Division will be waiting at the bottom of the building. As soon as I jump, they'll-"_

"_Jump?" She cut through, immediately sharpening at the word._

"_Molly!" I snapped, the clock's moving hands like slaps in the face. "We have no time!" Molly flared, looking as if she wanted to ask more. But she managed to keep herself quiet to my intense relief. "I'm going to jump." I repeated, stressing each word specifically. "Off of the building and down to the concrete below. I'll be fine, don't worry about that. The point is that my Homeless Division will have to reach me first. They'll surround me and make sure that no one else is able to get very close." I paused a moment, mind wandering for a fraction of a second. "They'll need new clothes…can't have them looking the way they do when-"_

"_So what do I do then?" Molly asked swiftly._

_I reached back, hand slipping back into my coat as I pulled out a small rubber ball. I put my hand forward, displaying the toy to the doctor and waiting for her reaction. Surprisingly, a flash of recognition went through the woman's eyes as she caught sight of it. But as usual, I explained it anyway. "I'll put this underneath my shoulder once I get down to the ground; it'll cut off blood circulation and make it appear as if I have no pulse. Hopefully I'll be blocked by my people and I'll have time to arrange it. They're in charge of putting out the blood, so I was left to deal with this part myself. An old magician's trick, and yet it'll do just fine until you get me out."_

"_Until I get you out." Molly breathed slowly, starting to nod._

"_You'll have the look-alike for the morgue. We can make the fast switch, and then that should be the last part." I concluded, finally reaching the end of my explanation. It was shorter than I thought it was, or had I just pictured it miles long? "It'll be a risky operation, and if we get caught, we'll have a lot of explaining to do. But I believe we can pull it off as long as we're on the same page. There can be no room for error, do you realize that?" My tone immediately sharpened out of habit, heightening with intensity as I started to lean into the doctor. "The world believes that I am a dangerous criminal that deserves to be put behind bars. And that's not even the worse factor of this situation." I imagined Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, all dead. The thought sent my stomach into unfamiliar churns. "In order to make sure that everyone I know is safe, I have to do this. And I can't do it without you." I paused for a second, mouth pulling into an upset scowl. "And Mycroft." I added ungraciously._

"_Mycroft?" Molly repeated._

"_This is Mycroft's Hospital." I went over uselessly, already more than upset about the fact that he was involved in any way. I certainly didn't want to talk about it. "If we tell him what we're doing, and once I tell him why, he'll need to scramble the computes. He can curb most of the paperwork that surrounds my death, and make sure that little to no information gets leaked or found out. He can help you with the decoy body, and he can make sure that nobody gets a clear look at it. He'll know the severity of the situation, I'm sure. And once he finishes telling me that this is a 'ridiculous' solution to my problem, he'd surely be willing to do anything to help."_

"_How do you know?" She asked, tilting her head to the side._

"_I'll be asking him for help." I stated grouchily. "When do I ever do that?"_

_She hummed something that must have been hoped to pass as a subtle reply. She hesitated a moment. She looked as if she wanted to say something, so I kept quiet even though we had no time, figuring that I may as well let her try and get caught up as much as she could. Though it must have been considered an off-base question from the way she was looking, and when she finally did speak, I realized my assumption was correct. "What about Watson?" She asked, shifting uneasily even as the words came out of her mouth._

_I stumbled at this, unable for answer for a moment as I was caught off-guard by the question. Molly stared at me more fully now, a slight crease in her forehead that expressed concern and worry. But this time the feelings weren't in according to this new plan. She knew more than she let on, and she was showing it now by surveying me fully. She must have been taking in my hunched posture, my lopsided scarf, which I always made sure to straighten accordingly. The way that I was hiding behind my instructions and explanations, refusing to tell her the full story or what might be going on with the others._

_My voice was dead and flat when I answered. "Watson can't know about this." I said firmly. "Nobody else but us can know."_

_Molly shifted, eyes flickering down to the ground once more as she started out in a whisper. It was clear that she didn't want to contradict me outright, her voice turning small all of a sudden. I've never been one to linger on emotions; as a consulting detective, I was firmly bound on separating my inner feelings from my work, lest I mix the two up accidentally. So it was already looking to be rather difficult to associate myself with Molly, considering I've never really paid attention to such trivial things like emotions before. "But…but maybe he could help-" She broke off uncertainly, biting her lower lip as she cut herself off prematurely. _

"_Watson and the others are the reason I have to do this." I snapped, not letting her start over as she was obviously planning to. "In order to keep them safe, I _have _to make them think as if I'm going to die. And that's just what we're going to let them believe. From this moment on, if you're willing to help me, we have to keep this secret, do you understand, Molly?" I asked stiffly, each word weighted with importance. "No matter what happens: what people might say, do, or think, we can't let anyone know about this. I'll tell the same to Mycroft when I tell him what's going on."_

_Molly nodded. "I understand." I said lowly._

_A nod again from me. Molly was one of the best people for the job, I had come to realize this as soon as the plan formulated in my mind. She was the silent type, only truly knowing the people that visit the hospital on a regular basis. If she has a surplus of friends, which was doubtful, considering she had no existing plans on Christmas when Watson invited her over, she rarely talked about them with others. That alone showed that if she did have friends or family, she wasn't close. And with the way she was so quiet with her coworkers and often overlooked, she wouldn't have to answer a lot of questions around my death. And nobody would even consider her knowing something. She was the perfect accomplice._

"_Alright." I said finally, coming to a close. The hard part of explaining what was going to happen was over, but now the harder part was here. And that was actually managing to pull off the feat. Of course, I had no intention of letting myself fail, but I had no idea what Molly was capable of. This was the first time I've ever thought of her differently from an acquaintance. I never took the time before to try and see whether or not she would be helpful in a situation like this. A flaw in my plan, but hopefully I would fill the gap of wondering before too long. _

"…_You're sure?" She asked, hedging out with an unsure frown. _

"_When am I ever not?" I demanded swiftly, thinking once more as I started to pace. "You'll have to be quick with finding the medicine. I have to contact Mycroft - hopefully before John comes back, otherwise he'll cause an issue. I cannot have him knowing what I'm doing, otherwise it'll all be for nothing. The Homeless, I'll have to contact them too. Get them other clothes. I have to make sure there are others around, that way if anyone that's not in on the plan tries to get close, they can sidetrack them. Maybe a person on a bike. That way-"_

"_You are sure, then?" Molly repeated her question anxiously. I turned, dropping my hands from their fold as I did so. The doctor had turned, placing her bags on one of the nearby countertops for the moment. It was clear from the movement that she was trying to show she wasn't in a hurry. If she was ready to get going, she'd keep her bags close to her. not put them down to pick up later. The notion made me swell (we had no time for this) but Molly tried her best to ignore it. "If you want to do something like this…what will you do afterwards? Where will you go? Not that…I need to know…or anything." She whispered, her words getting quieter as she went on. _

_I shook my head. "Minor detail." I said swiftly, waving off her question. "I have plenty of possible places. London is a big city. Or I could branch away from here. Somewhere new, where people wouldn't recognize me." I cursed myself mentally, realizing that finding a place secure enough to hide myself would probably be near impossible. After all, after Watson had insisted on blogging about all our cases, our faces had been all over the news and the internet. And after what 'Richard Brook' had done, I was even more well-known. "I'll figure it out. You just need to worry about the medication." _

"_Well…if you need somewhere…you could stay at my house." She offered, voice barely a murmur. I straightened, blinking rapidly as I turned back to look at her. She was shifting from foot to foot, her tongue sticking into the inside of her cheek tightly as she paused. "I don't really spend a lot of my paycheck anyway, so it's rather big. And I have a storage room down below; I don't use it for anything other than putting away furniture that I'm not using. But if you'd let me clear it out a little…I'm sure it'd be more than enough for you. And since I don't use it, nobody else would if they found themselves in my house."_

_I didn't say anything, having my own crease of confusion over my face now as I looked at her._

_She shrugged. "Just a thought." She croaked, turning in a fumble as she scooped up her things again, clearly more than ready to leave. "I think I remember where the…the thing is." She stammered, tripping over herself and her words as she headed over for the door. "I should be back here soon, I won't tell anyone what I'm doing, I promise. And if John is here when I come back…I'll…uhm…I'll do something. Don't worry." She pressed down on the doorknob, walking forward too soon as she rammed into the door before it had time to open. She fell backwards, letting out a growl of frustration as she glared at the barrier, as if the trip was its fault._

"_Molly." I said, trying to drag her attention back._

"_Sorry." She squeaked, glancing my way in an embarrassed huff as she opened the door more fully. "Uh…" She looked up at the clock, biting her lower lip as she did so. If that wasn't a bad habit for her already, there was no doubt in my mind it would soon become one. "I'll be back here within the hour, is that okay?" She asked anxiously. "Don't…don't do anything before I come back. I'll try to hurry but just…be careful. Don't- don't leave. Or move. I'll be right back. Quick as a flash. Promise."_

"_Molly." I repeated._

"_I'll just-"_

"_Molly!" I snapped, voice sharpening as I demanded her to turn now._

_She did at once, cheeks looking like they were on fire as she spun around. She obviously regretted her choice in speaking her plan aloud, but if there was a fault in what she had said, I didn't see it. It seemed ideal actually, for now at least. I didn't know whether or not I would stay in London, but for the time being, it looked like it would be the best option I could have. After all, Molly was the only other person to know what I was doing. Once I added the Homeless and Mycroft…the less people that were informed, the better. This way I wouldn't have to draw another person into the issue. _

"_Thank you." I said, wincing mentally as I remembered my dark past with the two words. Nevertheless, I did mean them this time, there was no denying that. "For helping me, I mean. And…" Why was it so difficult? Watson did it all the time, and yet talking this way was something that I had trouble with. The only thing I had trouble with, I liked to think. Or know, actually. "I'll have to figure out what to do about afterwards, but your house would be the best place." Molly stiffened at this, mouth going into that little line once more. I didn't have time to try and figure out the emotion behind it though. "I'd like to keep this as quiet as possible, the less people that know what's going on would be the best way to do it."_

"…_Okay." She managed, offering me a small smile which I did not return._

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

The calendar was like a looming threat that was pinned on the wall. The date was December 15th, and it was exactly eight o'clock at night. Tomorrow would be long, and it would probably be hard. After all, it was always hard to talk to Watson and make it seem like she was just like him. 'I know.' She would say, a sad frown on her face for more reasons than one. 'It's okay, Watson. I miss him too.' The lies always tasted somewhat like salt, and the only good they did was help her to keep up her sad façade. It helped her look upset by the death of Sherlock, even though she was really upset with the way that she knew more than the man's closest friend did.

It would be so much easier, the thought always occurred to her. How much better would things be if she could _really _comfort the doctor? Instead of saying useless things such as: 'It'll get better' or 'He'd want you to move on' she could be saying things like: 'He's alive' or 'Don't be sad, he's still out there.' It would do so much more for him, and it would make the smiles that Watson always offered her real, rather than the lame fake ones he plastered on like a mask.

But Molly had made a promise to Sherlock, one very dangerous and yet firm oath. She had promised not to tell another living soul about what they had done, and she had made sure to keep her words to heart. She had said absolutely nothing, the whole way through. She had stood in the halls of the hospital and watched as Watson came down the hall, back from his meeting with Mycroft. She had smiled and nodded in his direction, pretending like she hadn't just handed off the requested medicine to Sherlock. And she had set up the decoy body with a set face, not even showing the slightest hint that she knew it wasn't actually Sherlock.

Molly had gone to Sherlock's funeral, making herself appear to be just as a wreck as anyone else there. She had watched Watson hunch forward as if in pain when the final eulogy had been said, and she hadn't even moved a muscle. And she had visited his grave just like everyone else, as if it was better than going downstairs to talk to him there. She gave no hint about what she had been doing, and she wasn't about to start now. Tomorrow would just make the halfway mark, it wasn't like anything else would happen. She would have her eye on Watson, and she would make sure that nothing would happen out of the ordinary. Everything would be like it always was, even if she wasn't too fond of it. She'd been lying for so long, why decide to break the streak tomorrow?

After all, the longer she did it, the more tolerable it became. It was much easier now than it was the first few weeks.

She sighed heavily, shaking the thoughts away like water as she looked down at the stove. Dinner was ready. Taking out two plates, she started to arrange the food properly, trying to engross herself into the task as much as she could. She was starting to take a liking to cooking; it hadn't been a very fun chore before, but now with the mentality of cooking for two…

"Thanks." The drawling voice snapped her forward, the girl letting out a sharp squeak of surprise as Sherlock came out of nowhere. The man reached forward, taking the plate out from under her just as she put down the finishing touches. It almost went everywhere, but Sherlock seemed to know the exact moment to take it. He swooped it away perfectly, and almost at once started to march out of the kitchen. Just as he rounded the corner, he threw over his shoulder. "And if you'll be sure to do that tomorrow, it would be a huge help." The words were condescending, though Molly had already grown accustomed to the tone. She didn't think that Sherlock meant to be rude with it, it was just the way that the man talked.

"I'm sorry…what?" Molly asked, eyes wide as she stood at the counter, her plate of food going untouched in front of her as she looked after the detective.

He stopped short at this, turning neatly on his heel as he looked back at her. In the back of her mind, Molly wondered whether or not she should try and get the man to go back downstairs. But she realized it would be pointless; if Sherlock thought that there was even the remote chance of someone walking in, he wouldn't have come up in the first place. Besides: it was dark outside, the windows were drawn shut as they were every night, and most of the neighbors were probably busy making their own dinner to bother to look in the direction of her house.

Night was really the only time that Sherlock could come upstairs. Not that he ever really found the need to, though. Most of what he needed was downstairs. A television, furniture, a bed, hiding places. And it all went without the pressure of social contact. It was a perfect downstairs, so when he ever came upstairs, it kind of surprised Molly. She wouldn't ever complain, though.

"You weren't listening?" He asked haltingly.

"I was up here. Cooking dinner." She answered, glancing back at the stove and sighing softly as she realized she forgot to turn it off.

"Huh." Sherlock mused, the words almost surprising him. Molly blinked, an odd look coming over her face. Did he just keep talking when she was gone? "Well, then." He sighed, turning and walking back to her direction. He put down his plate of food on the counter, making absolutely no move to eat it at all. "I was saying that tomorrow you need to look at the neighbors. When you go to Watson's flat, you must make a point to look at the people that are living around him." He lifted his arm, pointing at her flatly as he concluded with a few short words. "Then you report back to me."

"Why?" Molly asked, not yet realizing that the question was nearly pointless with Sherlock.

The detective sighed shortly before answering, his rude behavior making Molly frown ever so slightly. Sherlock had detailed the problem that he had before, after they had managed to pull off the feat of staging the man's death. He had been sure that there was no confusion, going back and repeating his story over and over, but sometimes his motives still went right over Molly's head. She was probably expected to know anything and everything by now to him. "Before I left, there were assassins staged strategically around my flat; they were sent there to spy on me. It's doubtful whether or not they would still be there since I had been thought to be dead, but there's always that chance." He sighed lazily, as if he wasn't talking about a life-threatening situation. "But they had been promised a reward for their efforts in watching me, and they were never given that. They might still be waiting for a reward of sorts, or they could still be watching Watson."

"Assassins?" Molly repeated, sounding like a broken record with all my questions.

"That's what I said."

"You think they could still be there?" She asked, eyes wide as she tried to picture the situation. How much trouble would Watson be in if they were still there? Surely Sherlock would never let his old friend be in so much potential hazard? He didn't seem that worried about it either, so he must know something that she didn't. Had Watson always gotten this frustrated with the lack of information flow, or was it just her?

"Oh, don't worry." Sherlock said briskly. "They would have done something by now if they wanted to. It's a forty percent chance that they're still there in the first place. But I want to make sure that they've left before I start to think about doing anything else. If they're still in the waiting, it wouldn't be wise for me to make any sort of move." He inhaled sharply before going on, the pause in his speech lasting only half a second. "So you have to go and take a look around. Make sure to make it seem like you don't know anything out of the ordinary; but it's you, so you should be just fine with that part of the assignment." She frowned, put-out by the hidden barb. "You just have to remember every detail about them; that part might prove to be troublesome, but you've been around me long enough. You should know how to properly asses a person by now."

"…I should?" She asked in a small voice.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her imploringly.

A beat of silence followed this, and Molly cleared her throat, hedging herself out as she changed the subject rather quickly. "So…what're _you_ going to do tomorrow?" She asked conversationally, averting the topic of discussion as best she could. Sherlock twitched at this, and she had no doubt in her mind that he was aware of her dodge. But he answered after a moment's pause, relief swimming through the doctor as he relented.

"Why do you ask?" He answered her question with his own.

Molly shrugged a little listlessly. "Just a question." She mumbled softly. "I don't know if you would have wanted to get out of the house. You haven't been out in a while, and I know how boring it can get around here…" She would be the first to complain about the lack of goings-on in this place. And with Sherlock, who's attention span was like that of a squirrel, it must be ten times as worse. Though it was risky walking around London, this was Sherlock at the same time. He'd be perfectly fine left to his own devices. In most cases, at least. And with the way he talked about wanting to know about the people around Watson's flat, it made it sound like he was thinking about doing something out of the ordinary. But then again, Molly had no idea what 'ordinary' was to Sherlock.

Her words seemed to spark interest in the detective though, and Molly realized that he had already been thinking over the plan before she had. His eyes were thoughtful now, and he leaned against the counter almost leisurely. His plate of food was still untouched, and Molly wondered dimly if he would even eat it. He gave a small hum of agreement, but it was heartbeat before he spoke aloud. "I might do just that." He said, straightening quickly as he spoke. There was an odd flash in the man's eyes, but Molly didn't think too much about it.

"Alright." She mumbled. "Well…I'll have to leave here tomorrow around lunch. So…I suppose-"

"I'll be gone by then." Sherlock stated, as if the fact was never even questioned.

"Oh." Molly said, looking faintly surprised. "Okay, then. I suppose I'll see you when I come back, then?" How long was he going to be gone?

"Maybe." He said dismissively.

Another awkward moment of silence.

"By the way, if you're going to the library, take those books back that you got last time." Sherlock pointed out, turning once more on his heel as he marched away. "They're exactly two days overdue."

"You already read them?" Molly asked skeptically, titling her head to the side. Last time she'd gone to the Library, she'd gotten exactly ten mystery books, all for the sake of trying to curb Sherlock's ever-growing impatience at being in her house all the time. They were thick and long, it would probably have taken her a week to finish one book let alone ten.

"Please, I knew who it was before I read the first page." Sherlock tossed over his shoulder.

"What about the other one I got you? It's supposed to be really-"

"The Judge did it."

Sherlock turned swiftly, opening the door that led down to the basement and disappearing in a flash. He closed the door behind him as he went, the silent swing only accompanied by the small click as it shut. Molly wilted, turning around and looking at Sherlock's plate of food, which he had left on the counter. He hadn't bothered to take it with him. "…oh…" Molly said softly, talking to herself now as she took the plate gingerly. She turned, opening the refrigerator and placing the food inside. Maybe he'd want to eat it later.

She looked after the detective, a frown on her face. Six months had gone by, and yet things hadn't seemed to change from the very first night that he stayed over. Every chance that Molly had to try and get closer to him was usually shot down. She bought him books that he might enjoy, and he didn't even bother to try and wait them out before spoiling the ending. She tried to make conversation about her work in the hospital, but Sherlock usually predicted how the stories would end before she could even get to the middle of it. She even tried to get the detective to play Clue with her one time, but it just ended with a very upset fight over whether or not the solution was correct.

Letting her arms swing down to her sides, she tapped her wrists gently on her hips, giving a small sigh. "I kind of wanted to read that book." She commented to no one in particular, her voice going unheard. Huffing with disappointment as she was shot down yet again, the doctor turned back to her food. It was getting cold fast; she would need to put it in the microwave before trying to eat it. And as she did just that, she decided that she would go to bed early tonight. She'd need a lot of energy for tomorrow, she guessed, her stomach already doing flips at the thought.

She was almost upset at the fact that Sherlock would be out and about as well. He would be so busy with whatever he was planning, he wouldn't be home for her to contact if necessary. Not that Molly would be bold enough to do that, though. She just liked the thought of having someone there if she needed help with things. And she had a nasty feeling that she _was _going to need help for tomorrow, as much help as she could get.

But it looked like it would be just her and Watson tomorrow.

A man with nearly nothing as he wallowed in the depression of losing his best friend, and a doctor that was holding everything back that could help him.

How much help was that?

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

A/N: It's okay, Molly, that happened to me. I was supposed to read 'And Then There Were None' for my Comm. Arts class, and my sister just walks through the room and goes: "The Judge did it." I was just like: :D ….. D:

But yep! This should conclude SOME of the exposition ((I know guys, I'm sorry. I wanna get to the good stuff too, but a good story has to have an introduction lol)). We'll still have a few, like something important that Mycroft says to Sherlock that'll be revealed soon, and the issues that'll come alive with that. But next chapter things are going to get really interesting! Scout's Honor! ((Cuz I was totally a Girl Scout for like a year)).

Anyway! I have most of the third chapter laid out for you all, but I'm only going to update if I get more reviews this time! I was excited to get to the awesome stuff ((next chapter hint hint)) so I managed to scrape this together despite the lack of feedback. But this time I'll be firm with myself and wait a little bit longer. So if you all wanna see the plot twist I have in store for next chapter, be sure to get on your keyboards!

Please and Thank You! Hope you liked!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So I got a Tumblr! ((I know right, I'm so cool.)) My name on there is sandfirekat because someone already had SandfireKat for some reason….so yeah! I'd love it if I could run into some of you on there, it'd be really cool. I've already gotten a few followers from my other stories, and it'd be awesome if you guys did the same : )

By the way, incorporating some of the classic Holmes into this. If any of you have read A Case of Identity, then you'll find some of the familiar.

By the way ((again lol)), if you find this chapter a little weird, just remember that Sherlock is never one to know exactly how to relate to people, or take care of them, or send anything in which that would suffice a simple: I care for you. He has his own Sherlock way to show that stuff, and I'm actually having a very good time in writing what I think would be the 'Sherlock Way' of saying: 'I worry about you.' ((Total Mycroft joke there lol.))

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

It was cloudy today, the weather having already been forecasted by the weathermen. Having stopped short this morning to inquire about such facts, Molly had learned that later on today it was supposed to break out in a large storm. But as the woman paced swiftly down the sidewalk, she couldn't help but cast anxious glances up towards the sky, feeling a tremor of unease as she did so. The dark masses overhead were nearly pitch black, and she could almost see that way that they bent down towards the ground. It looked as if the gale might break at any minute, the air heavy with humidity and the fresh scent of water. And yet the news team had been careful to inform its audience that the storm would only come later on tonight.

But the worry of rain was pushed into the back of her mind after a few minutes of dwelling on the subject. It was hardly a matter of importance right now after all. She had to sort out what she could about today, figure out what she could say or what she could do that could possibly help her. This morning she had gotten up early in a hopes of catching Sherlock before he left the house. But even though she got up a little before the sun even did, in her search of the basement, she came up empty. Wherever Sherlock had gone, or whatever he had in his head, he'd left Molly's house in the small hours of morning.

Which left her even more on-edge. She knew that it was probably pointless, worrying over Sherlock being out and about. Sherlock was, well…Sherlock. She'd seen him in tons of life-threatening situations and he'd always come out unscathed. She was sure that he would be fine, whatever he was doing right now. And she didn't need to know what he was up to anyway, it was none of her business. Sherlock had made it blatantly clear that even if he was hiding out in her basement for a few short months, there was no thought in his head of him getting closer to her. Which was fine with her, of course.

She just wished so much that he had stayed at her house. That way she could call home at any time if she needed help. What if John asked her questions about him? What if he started to realize that she was holding back more information than she was giving? If he started raining down questions on her, she wasn't sure at all what to say in return to him. "So what exactly did you do with Sherlock's body?" He could ask her later on today. "Were you in charge of it?" "What kind of wounds were on him?" "Did he talk with you before he went to the top of the Hospital?" "What were his last words with you?" "Are you sure that he was dead?" "What about Irene Adler? What if he did what she did?"

She closed her eyes tightly, brushing the pestering worries away from her mind with difficulty. Walking blindly along the pavement of which she knew by heart, she wished away the butterflies from her stomach. She had to stop looking so tense before she got there, she _had _to. She would be a help to no one unless she could get herself under control, not that she was a big help in the first place. What was her job, anyway? To check up on Watson. That was her job, and that was what she was going to stick to. That was _all_ she knew. If he asked her anything, she would just shrug aimlessly, giving him that same sad look that she had memorized by now. The look on the outside that said: I know what you're going through, I'm going through it too. But on the inside it said: Please don't see through me.

She was surprised that he hadn't remembered it though, the way that Irene had faked her death. Even though Molly had been severely out of the loop in those kind of situations back then, she had made sure that she knew everything about Mrs. Adler. For reasons that she wouldn't like to admit aloud, of course. But she had caught the word that Irene had lived, and that what they had had in the morgue was merely a fake decoy body of herself. Perhaps that was what planted the idea of this particular solution into Sherlock's head, but it was rather surprising that the same theory wasn't in Watson's. Or maybe it was and the man wasn't able to get his hopes high enough to voice it.

Nevertheless, she should be counting her lucky stars that he hadn't yet. Her shoulders slumped forward, the girl heaving a small sigh as she ducked her head. These past six months, she had been so on-edge. Sure, she had a good reason to be, but she couldn't ever manage to relax anymore. She was tired both emotionally and physically, and though the thought of Sherlock leaving was a sad one, she was starting to wonder how long either of them could hold this up. And if they couldn't, what would-

Her thoughts were broken as she suddenly found herself ramming hard into a sudden blockade. Her eyes were still closed as she mulled over her thoughts, the girl having forgotten to look where she was going. It was still early, and the chances of running into someone in this particular street was unlikely. But she should have been more careful, obviously. Molly stumbled backwards, head spinning from the surprise of the sudden stop. She blinked rapidly, snapping her eyes open and gasping sharply as she saw a person in front of her. They were staggering from the impact, looking flustered as they tried to regain their footing.

It was someone she'd never seen before, which was probably pretty expected, considering she didn't get out a lot. But he was handsome, she had to admit. Looking nearly her own age, the man straightened with a small hum, fixing his black rain coat and dusting off his now-damp jeans. And even as she made the connection of having never seen this person before, she couldn't help but wonder if there was something oddly familiar about them. Maybe she could have been able to notice who it might have been better, if not for the way that the hood of the jacket was so tightly drawn forward, or the odd glasses that he wore. Despite it being cloudy, he displayed black-tinted spectacles, making it nearly impossible to make out the color his eyes. The get-up was a weird one, she admitted privately, but she shook herself free of the rude thoughts rather quickly.

"I-I'm so sorry!" She squeaked at once, reaching over and helping the person right themselves out of polite habit. The person looked at her oddly as she touched him, and she snatched her hand away immediately. "Uhm, are you alright?" She asked softly, tying to bury her nerves with speech as she normally did. "I'm very sorry - usually I watch where I step. I guess today is just an off-morning."

"And why is that?" The stranger asked. Molly jerked with surprise at his speech, finding his voice rather gravelly. Wringing her hands together, she shifted from foot to foot, staring blankly at the man as she tried to slow her mind down enough to think. The person watched her carefully from the curtain of black that hung over his glasses, interest almost sparking off of him like embers. _Something so familiar. _She stressed mentally. _What it is? What is it? _Who _is it? _

"Oh." She said a little louder than normal, eyes widening as she found herself not speaking. A silence had stretched between them, awkward and maybe a little bit too long. She was kind of hoping that he'd go on with his day -that was what most people did- but he seemed intent for a reply from her. Looking around, Molly recognized the landmarks around her and knew that she was nearly at her destination. John's flat was only a block or two away from here. Dimly, she asked herself whether or not this was one of the assassins that Sherlock was talking about last night; he definitely looked weird and mysterious. Her heart sped up the prospect of meeting one, Sherlock had made it seem like there was a small chance that they were still around. "It's just…busy, I guess." She said, wincing inwardly as her voice rose an octave. Clearing her throat, and trying again, she hedged forward little by little. "Do you, uh, do you live near here? I think I've seen you before."

The person frowned at this. "I don't think I've ever seen you before." He said in reply, avoiding her first question quite expertly.

She was silent, looking around him and trying to see whether or not John was waiting for her outside. The thought was a vain one, she had told him that she would come up to meet him inside, but she was just hoping for some kind of excuse to leave or detach herself from the scene. Overhead, thunder rumbled in the distance, caroling the oncoming arrival of the soon-to-be-gale. Shaking her head at the noise, she tried to give out a subtle good-bye. "I must be thinking of someone else." She suggested softly, looking down fixedly at the ground now. "I, uh, I have to get going." She improvised. "Sorry again for…for running into you."

"That's quite alright." He said easily in that same odd tone of voice.

Ducking her head in an awkward nod, Molly swerved around him carefully. Walking at a much faster pace now, she found herself suddenly anxious to leave the man behind. She didn't know who he was, or what he reminded her of, but she knew that she'd rather get to John's as quick as she could. It was getting to be lunchtime, and she wasn't too keen on the idea of being late. But right as she was about to leave the man behind her, he turned, lowering his glasses for a heartbeat and looking after her with sharp eyes. He spoke up again, but this time, his voice was all-too-familiar, not at all gravelly anymore as he spoke her way calmly. "Good luck with John today, Molly." He called after her in the empty street, voice immediately smoothing out.

She stiffened with shock, eyes widening as she spun around to look back at who she had run into. Was it…? "Sherlock?" She asked, voice a small whisper, as if she wasn't in an empty street. But the person was already pacing away, the tinted glasses pushed back up his nose as he proceeded the way he was going. Molly watched him go, feeling a stab of disappointment. There was no doubt in her mind now that that was Sherlock, and yet he didn't even stop to try and make a rational conversation with her. He did wish her luck, though, which was far more than she expected of him.

He rounded the corner, disappearing in his stride as he left the street they were on. If Molly didn't know any better, she would have thought he was heading for the library. Her forehead creased as she tried to guess what he was up to, but it was like trying to create a million piece puzzle in less than a second. Guessing Sherlock's motives was nearly impossible, but could he be trying to pin down Watson? "…Sherlock?" She called out again, trying to hail him back as best she could.

But the only response she got was another rumble of thunder.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

Molly got to 221B with no more distractions. Around the building more and more people were starting their day, the hustle and bustle of everyday life going on around the woman as she made for the door. But going up the steps, she stilled as she suddenly knew that she hadn't figured out a legitimate plan yet. How was she going to look at the neighbors? Go from flat to flat and claim that she kept getting the wrong place? It was a lame excuse, and a lame _plan_ to top it off. But it was unfortunately all that she had at the moment. Sighing, she half-wished that if that was really Sherlock she had run into before, he would come back to look at the neighbors himself. After all, if he expected her to 'deduce' them all exactly like he did, he was going to be severely disappointed with her results she brought back.

Raising her hand, she was just about to ring the first Flat on the list, when the door suddenly opened on itself, causing the girl to leap backwards with a stunned look. Expecting to see Watson at the door, she swallowed uncomfortably as she met eyes with Mrs. Hudson. The elderly woman grinned kindly at her, recognition flashing through her eyes. "Why hello, Molly!" She greeted warmly, always the eager one to greet friends.

Molly smiled weakly, swallowing back her disappointment as best she could. Now that Mrs. Hudson was here, she probably wouldn't be able to look at the people around Watson's flat. Sherlock would be disappointed, and yet she couldn't help but feel a small hint of relief at the same time. Now she wouldn't have to interact with people that could easily kill her on the spot. It was enough to allow a small puff of respite. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson." She said politely, giving her a smile in turn.

"I'm guessing you're here for John, aren't you?" Mrs. Hudson said more softly, obviously remembering all the times that Molly had been here before. The woman grinned at this, giving a small nod in turn. Mrs. Hudson took after her, nodding slowly herself as she surveyed the doctor. "It's quite a good thing you have, dearie." She said, causing a flash of interest to go through her. "He's been in quite the state these days, you know. All this dreadful nonsense about Sherlock; it's taking quiet a toll on him, poor thing. You coming by here really does help, even if he doesn't say so, mind you."

"Oh…well…good." She managed, dishing out another weak grin.

"I'll have to call him down here, it takes him such a long time nowadays." She sighed, stepping back and gesturing her inside welcomingly. "Come inside, come inside." She invited. "It looks like a storm is heading our way, doesn't it?" Molly took the offer, sidling into the hall with a small mummer of agreement. "John! Molly is here!" The old woman called up the stairs, getting no reply as she looked back at Molly. "I'm afraid you'll have to go up there. I don't know if he's even up, haven't heard a peep all morning. But you never know with him, of course."

"Oh." Molly said, turning and peering up the stairs. Did that mean she could stop by the doors around the hall and peek inside for the owner? Somehow the thought of getting back to Sherlock with nothing to account for was upsetting; she didn't want to seem like she didn't care about the detective's motives, because that was quite the opposite in reality. "Alright, then." She said after a moment's hesitation, proceeding forward and starting up on the steps.

The stairs creaked as she went up them, but time and memory had warned her of each step that would make the noise. Hopping around the loose ones and stepping on the sturdy, she made her way up as silently as she could. But if Mrs. Hudson noticed her carefulness, she didn't dwell on it. The Landlady just marched her way into the kitchen, saying something about making lunch while Molly went upstairs. The doctor half-hoped that she meant just for her and not them. If she was interrupted, she didn't know what she would do to cover up her strange motives.

Ignoring the Flat straight forward, which would take her to Sherlock's old home, she went to the one beside it. It looked normal enough, the door closed and looking identical to all the others around it. If she were Sherlock, she would probably be able to make sense of who was inside just by looking at the door, and yet the thought was useless to her. She wasn't Sherlock, she was just the person he trusted to do his work for him now. And so far, it was looking like the trust was rather unfounded.

Stepping forward, Molly raised her hand, curling her fingers into a fist and giving out a few sharp raps to the entrance. After, she leaned backwards, eyeing the doorway nervously as she waited for a response to her. But seconds turned into a minute, and there was no answer. She frowned at this, tilting her head to the side as she studied it closely, forcing herself to try and think like the detective. There were scratches and marks on it, but that was probably just because it was old, right? Or did it have a deeper meaning that she couldn't think of? Maybe it meant-

"Molly?"

The doctor spun rapidly at her name, a sharp intake of breath coming from her throat almost humorously. John stood a ways away, having just stepped out, it looked like. The man was eyeing her oddly, leaning awkwardly to the side like he always did with his leg that was acting up. It was a moment before he said anything, looking from the Flat to her as he obviously tried to make a connection. "…What are you doing?" He asked finally, coming up with no realistic conclusion.

"Nothing." She said simply, stepping backwards with what she hoped was an innocent look.

Watson didn't stop looking at her weird, though. "Do you know who lives there?" He asked.

"No." She answered immediately. "Do you?"

"…No." He shook his head.

"Oh. Okay." She murmured, glancing one more time at the door before stepping away and back over to the stairs. "Uh…" She craned her neck, peering through John's still-open door and looking out the windows on the other side of the room. "We should go soon." She offered quickly, realizing that she needed to change the subject before he asked any more questions. After all, her only answer would be: 'Sherlock wanted me to check in there.' And she couldn't really voice that reason aloud, now could she? "It, uhm, it looks like the…the storm will break soon." Before he could say anything else, she cleared her throat. "Do you need a cab?" She asked in a squeak. "For-for your leg, I mean."

John blinked rapidly, looking as if he were still a little caught off-guard. His eyes flickered back and forth between Molly and the door, a slight crease in his forehead that illustrated thought. But there was a weak kind of interest in his eyes, as if he wanted to be curious, but he was too tired to do anything of the sort. Once again, Molly felt a nervous sort of sadness, feeling as if she were intruding on him by her coming around again. And by the way that he carried himself, with stooped shoulders, leaning heavily on his side, and having that same pinched look on his face, she knew that he would rather have had her stay away. Especially today.

But she knew that she couldn't leave.

She had a job to do.

"We can walk." She answered for him.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

The sounds of life were roaring around him, like they always did in the peak of the morning in London. People hailing down taxis, couples hand in hand as they conversed down the sidewalk, parents dragging whining children along like they were on a leash, and above all, it was just a normal day. Nothing was out of the ordinary so to say, it looked exactly like any other bright morning. But then again, he was never the 'expert' on normalcy, though he was certainly better at it now than he had been so long ago.

Sherlock stood on the edge of the hustle and bustle, the raincoat that he had gotten now firmly up against the wind that was starting to pick up around him. Hands in his pockets, and coat collar drawn up for further shelter, he watched people come and go attentively, never missing a beat. He watched a couple go, not even hesitating a moment before noting the fact that one was secretly cheating on the other, and he also had watched a young teenager walking beside their parents, having been able to see the earring that they were clearly trying to hide from the elders with their hat.

The only people that he didn't look closely at were the two that he came out here to see in the first place. Molly and John were taking their time on arriving. While at first, Sherlock had presumed that they would take a cab, he soon was able to deduce that Molly would chose walking instead. Having already asked the man of his day, she no doubt came to know that going to the library would only take up a small splice of the hours. She should have come up with a more logical aversion, he thought dryly, looking down at the ground with what would look to passerbys as mere indifference.

Though he hadn't told Molly outright that she had to curb John's attention, he wouldn't be telling the entire truth if he said that it hadn't relieved him at least a little. Once again, like a tape recorder being played back for him, Sherlock remembered every detail clearly. _Trust issues. Strong moral principals. Touchingly_ loyal.Traits like such of the following were closely related to Doctor John Watson, and Sherlock knew without a doubt that such a man could not be left to his own devices at a time like this. Who knows what John could do without anybody watching him; after all, what kind of life was he leading before Mike led him to Sherlock in the first place?

He looked back up at this, a slow smile working its way across his face as he caught sight of the pair walking down steadily in his direction. Molly was wringing her hands together in front her, a sure sign that everything was going wrong like it normally did with her. The brunette looked as if she were already running out of things to say, floundering in her speech with the reoccurring gait that she usually had in conversations. Other people blocked Sherlock's viewpoint of John, but he was able to cast the thought away. He'd see him soon enough, after all. And by the way that Molly's torso was turned, he was obviously with her.

But as soon as he caught sight of her, she did the same with him. She must have made the connection with their earlier meeting, for her eyes lit up at once as they rested on him only briefly. Keeping his monotone look firmly on his face, he started to turn, ready for Watson to follow her stunned look. But to his surprise, Molly stopped short, halting in her tracks as she came to the abrupt end in her strides. John kept walking for a few heartbeats; he must have been listening with half an ear to her conversation in the first place with the way that he walked a few paces without her so instantly.

But as soon as he noticed her pause, he turned around with an awkward shuffle to look back at her. Listening closely, and attempting to channel his hearing around the other people crowding around, Sherlock heard Molly's parting words. "…a table in there." She was suggesting, rapidly reaching out with an uncoordinated hand to point towards the nearest restaurant. And even though Sherlock was standing so far away from them, he was aware of the confusion and irritation rolling off of John in waves. "…could eat lunch there before we- you know, before we go…wherever."

"The library?" John prompted.

"…yeah…" Molly said uncomfortably, shooting Sherlock a look around the man as she shifted. Sherlock sighed, giving a moody roll of the eyes as he turned away, knowing all too well what Molly was trying to do. His assumption proved itself right in the next few minutes, of course. No more than five of them had gone by before the doctor was by his side, John having stepped away into the restaurant that Molly must have picked out at random.

Before she could say anything, Sherlock spoke up first. "You had to pick that one." He sighed, indicating the place that she had just signaled out. "I'd imagine it will get shut down in a few months. Health code violations usually end up that way, don't they?"

Molly hesitated, wincing away briefly as she looked down at the ground. But then she heaved a sigh, straightening herself as she looked over at him with a look between anger and curiosity. "What are you doing here?" She asked slowly, sounding as if there was something stuck in her throat. Sherlock perked innocently at the question, tilting his head to the side as he turned back to look at her. She only shook her head at him though, looking lost. "If you were just going to follow us, then why did you leave the house? At least that way you could…" She shifted, looking away. "…that way I could call you for help if I- if I needed it or something."

"Oh, no doubt you'll need help." Sherlock sighed airily, snatching the girl's attention and causing her to bolt upright with surprise and a little indignation. "But after all, you shouldn't make such quick assumptions: you aren't very good at them. I was here before you, if you'll care to remember." He inhaled sharply, turning up and peering into the sky with a thoughtful glance. "I've actually got quite a few things on hand that need sorting out at the moment; I've only come by here to spare a few seconds."

"You…" She blanched. "You're _busy_?" She asked.

"Of course!" He exclaimed, finding the question preposterous. "As I always am."

"Then you didn't come back to…to see John?"

"Why would I?" He asked evenly. "You've got him covered, why would I need to be here?"

"But you…I thought…oh." Molly stumbled slightly in her speech before nodding, sitting back into her hips in a clear sign of disappointment. The movement did not go unnoticed by the detective, and he looked her up and down invitingly as he waited for her to voice her troubles. But she chose not to, merely continuing to nod. "Alright, then." She said. "So…you'll be going, then?"

"I'm afraid so." He said smoothly, not sounding afraid at all. "I have quite a ways to walk from here, and this storm is going to come to a head at around exactly 5:00 PM. I'd like to be finished with all that I have in mind before then so I won't get stuck in the pour, although now that I think about it, the statement does sound rather _too _promising. Best get on when it's dry outside, don't you think?" The question was meant to be rhetorical, and yet Molly gave her agreement either way.

"Alright." She repeated, looking at his odd disguise with a nervous look. "I'll…see you later, then?"

"Probably." He said, looking away pointedly.

Molly bit her lower lip, giving out a small hum as she tapped her wrists against her sides. "…Okay." She said yet again, pausing to look him over for the last time before turning on her heel. Not giving herself another chance to try and mess things up, she disappeared back into the crowd, heading back for where she had pointed John. Measuring the distance between them idly, and waiting a few moments, Sherlock twisted back around to look after her.

She'd made quick work in leaving; whether or not it was to get back to John or to get away from him, he didn't have the capacity to piece apart. He waited, staring at the spot that she had been in blankly, as if waiting for something. Perking, he looked back and forth for a moment, debating. He wasn't lying when he had told Molly that he was busy; he actually did have a long list of subjects that had his utmost importance. And yet one was still here…

Giving a sharp, slightly impatient sigh, Sherlock marched after her firmly. Heading for the eatery with a brisk stride, the detective narrowed his eyes slightly. There would be no wait for a table, the building was nearly condemned already, who in their right mind would stay long enough to create a line? They would get a window seat, he knew. John would want it solely for the purpose of doing anything other than paying a hundred percent attention on Molly, and she would want it for the sole reason of keeping an eye out for himself if he ever decided to return this way. That was all he would do: a simple walk past. That was all the time he desired; he needed a few seconds at the most, no more no less.

Nearing the café, he was pleased to see that the building rounded a sharp corner, along with the wall windows. A perfect maneuver around to make it seem like he was nothing more than a man heading off for work somewhere uptown. Now if only Molly wouldn't make a fuss like she had before…

Through the window, he could see inside clearly. Molly and John had just came to the table, pulling back their seats and taking their own. The woman had taken the seat across the table, facing Sherlock. That was good; that meant that John wouldn't have time to see much of his face. Not that he would recognize him either way. Molly didn't even notice his presence even, the girl beaming a little too brightly John's way as she smoothed down her clothes nervously. John nodded in return to something that she had said, leaning forward and resting his arms lightly on the table. A feign at interest, for Sherlock had performed the same trick of false curiosity many a time himself.

At once, knowing that he had a short time, Sherlock's eyes darted over to John. Making sure that the length of his stride remained unerringly constant, the detective made sure that he would see enough in his short time.

He started from the hair like he normally did whilst assessing a person, narrowing his eyes into thoughtful slits as he continued to stride forward. John's hair was quiet shaggy, it hasn't been cut for two months at the very least. He carried himself in an awkward manner, the change seen even while he was sitting. His posture was set much too upright: his back was stiff, the muscles taut, probably from nerves. Neck was stiff as well: a migraine for approximately two hours. His shoulders were creating a much sharper outline underneath his slightly baggy clothes, each of them combining to say one thing: loss of weight. How much was a gamble, probably near the number of twenty or maybe even thirty.

Lastly, having passed them up at the window by now, Sherlock spun around, walking backwards now. A few people around him eyed him oddly at this change, the man creating a perfectly sound excuse as he started to look up towards the sky, muttering about the bad weather and what time the rain might come. But as he looked up, he made a special attempt to look at John's face, mind still racing like an engine as he did so.

The man was in the middle of talking, actually looking genuinely interested in whatever conversation that they were holding together now. But as the doctor talked, Sherlock took note of the incessant drumming that his left hand performed on the table. Nervous tremor. There was a dark shading underneath his eyes as well, the mark of long days and short nights. That, or nightmares.

As he stared intently John's way, the war veteran suddenly stiffened, as if he felt someone watching him as closely as Sherlock was. He started to turn his way, but Sherlock had already spun around. Hunching his shoulders against the blustering winds, the detective hurried away, eyes firmly on the ground as he melted into the others that were around him. _He's fine, just as I thought. He's smiling with Molly after all, and she's hardly very amusing. _He told himself firmly. _Nothing else matters. And it's not like you can do anything about it. Just get on with what you need to do._

But still, as Sherlock hurried away, a frown graced itself sadly across his features.

"…Did you see that?" John asked suddenly, breaking off in his story as he leaned backwards in his chair. Molly blinked, following his stare outside the window with an inquiring look. She let out a confused mummer as she came up with nothing though, looking lost as she glanced back Watson's way. But he was staring after the person that was taking their leave, a man clad in a raincoat. Had he been staring at him? Or…was it just nerves?

"See what?" Molly asked when he didn't exaggerate the point any farther.

"There was…someone out there." John said firmly, forehead creasing over as he spoke. Molly blinked, glancing out the window one last time before sitting back once more with a shrug.

"Must be someone you know." She pointed out fairly. "Have any of your old friends tried to get together with you yet? It was quite fun at the Christmas Party last year. Maybe we could do something like that again this year."

John looked at her oddly for a moment.

She blinked innocently. "Something….wrong?" She asked softly.

"…no." He said, looking out into the square one last time. He squinted, thinking that he caught another glimpse of the hooded person walking in a tightly knit group of what looked like tourists. His coat was drawn forward tightly, the sides of his hood flickering back and forth rapidly in the gusts of winds that were roaring against the side of the café. He was walking with a perfectly straight posture unlike the others outside, who were wincing or grimacing away from the horrible weather. And when others stumbled, he went twice as fast.

He looked a lot like…

He tore his gaze away from the window at this, looking down at the table with a sudden wave of sickness. His stomach dropped twenty feet, and he gave a small sigh as he tried to shake away his lightheadedness. No, that was a stupid thought. It was only because of the day. It was just a stranger, he'd never seen him before. Molly looked up at this new change in demeanor, looking as if she were about to ask something. But John just shook his head.

"No." He repeated, much more firmly this time. "It was…nobody."

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

The halls were quiet, as they always were at this time of day. Sherlock relished in the silence, taking comfort in the fact that he was alone. Being alone was better than being with others, he told himself firmly. Being with others only complicated matters. He'd much rather be by himself. Which was why he had come here today.

As soon as the thought passed his mind, there was a patter of footsteps behind him, coming closer and closer the longer he waited. The familiar plinking of an umbrella on the ground assured him that this was in fact that person he had come to see; yet the crisp and clean pace of his stride would have been enough to assure the detective that this was the goody-two-shoes that was in question. "Well, then." A voice said, a light sigh curling up the ends of his words. "What has brought you all the way out of your hiding place?"

Though the question was meant to barb and jab, there was also curiosity there as well.

Sherlock turned on his heel, a small half-smile curving its way around his lips. "Hello, Mycroft." Sherlock said a little too sweetly, watching as his brother gave him a sharp look. Patience was never a thing that his brother had a surplus of, but then again, neither did he. For the moment, nobody else was here to intrude on their meeting, yet he knew as well as his brother that the fact wasn't a given. Even if this was Mycroft's workplace, someone could always find themselves lost, or having to intrude because of some unexpected event.

"Well, Sherlock?" Mycroft prompted. "I'm _all _ears."

At this, Sherlock's grin faltered slightly. A much more serious look entered his eyes, as well as his posture as he deflated gingerly. Noticing the change, Mycroft raised his eyebrows pointedly towards his younger brother. "I've come because it's time." Sherlock said finally, voice almost subdued. "I've thought about your offer. I'm willing to think about it in more detail."

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

A/N: CLIFFHANGER!? A little :3

Reviews make faster updates!

Now that school has started, it'll be harder to update, so this is where the whole more-reviews thing will really come in handy. ((thumbs up))

Sorry if the ending is kinda bad. Once again: it's hard to update with school, so cut me some slack XD

You're not supposed to know what they're talking about, by the way. That'll be revealed soon. AND NEXT CHAPTER IS A HUGE PLOT TWIST. I PROMISE. SO GET ON THOSE KEYBOARDS.


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